Just Outside, page 8
She saw Connor give her an odd glance.
"This is important," he muttered. "Keep alert. Pick up what we need."
"I will," she muttered back, feeling nausea surge as he led her over to where the masks and gloves awaited.
Cami gowned up as a tall man, whose features she couldn't even see clearly behind his mask and eyeglasses, came out of the nearest room.
"Connor," he said.
"Farah," Connor replied, clearly familiar with this pathologist.
"I've got something to show you. We suspected it after the first autopsy. But this one made it more likely. However, we're not a hundred percent sure yet. I’d like your take on it."
"Let's have a look."
Even though Connor's face was now swathed in a mask, Cami could see his eyes were bright and alert. She wondered if he'd ever felt the same as her when confronted by a corpse on a slab. Maybe long ago when he’d started out, but not for years, certainly. Now, her supervisor and partner had been able to wall off the horror and focus only on what was going to get the case further.
Maybe she'd be able to do that, too, one day. Especially if a year’s involvement now awaited her.
She felt apprehensive, but determined to fight her fear, as she walked into the chilly room, and her chest tightened as she saw the two sheet-swathed figures on the metal tables. They seemed so vulnerable, so small in death. Struggling to get a handle on her stomach churning nausea, Cami now added sadness to her stew of emotions as she glanced at them.
The doctor strode straight over to the closest one and pulled back the sheet. Instinctively, Cami dropped her gaze to the floor. Damn, she thought. She hadn’t wanted to do that, but this was sheer survival.
"Now, as you can see, the knife strokes in the two victims are clearly from the same, or a very similar, weapon. They slice deep into the back. It's probably the second out of three that killed her. The first was too high, and by the third, she was already collapsing."
"Yes, I see," Connor said, sounding fascinated.
"But what we did note was the angle of the cuts. Now it was hard to tell here. But take a look at the second victim. This time, there were four strokes. Probably also the second was a fatal blow, as was the third, because she took longer to fall."
"Yes," Connor said.
"But you see the angle here?"
She heard his voice, sharp and intense, like a knife itself.
"Left handed?" he said.
Cami's head jerked up.
That was important. That would narrow down the identity of the killer substantially.
"We can't be sure. And also, there's the chance that he simply favors that hand for physical activity, and the other is still dominant. But it's something to look out for," the doctor emphasized.
"Wait a minute." Cami heard her voice, shaky but loud enough for both Connor and Farah to look around.
"I might be able to confirm that," she said. "From the camera footage."
The footage she had on her phone. From the security camera in Brooke’s apartment lobby.
She'd looked at where the killer buzzed himself in. She’d seen which button he'd pressed. But she hadn't noticed which hand he'd used, and now, combined with this other evidence, it was suddenly critical.
She rewound the footage. She looked again.
"Left," she said, feeling all the more triumphant that she'd managed to do this while in the stressful environment of the autopsy room. "Take a look." She turned the phone their way. Without a doubt, their killer had raised his left hand to the buzzer, unerringly.
"Left handed for sure. That narrows it down." Connor turned to the pathologist. "Thanks. You've given us a good lead. And thanks for confirming it," he told Cami.
To Cami's relief, they then left the autopsy room. The night air on her perspiring face felt cool and fresh as they headed back to the car.
"What are we doing now?" she asked Connor.
"Well, exploring direct contacts hasn't worked so far, but I'm going to keep following up on it in case there are others we haven’t yet pinpointed. But I have a different job for you." He glanced at her.
"What's that?" she asked.
"These victims were both very active online. They were both vocal and outspoken. So that’s where we need to look for connections now. We now need to find out if they had any opponents or critics in common. Someone might have become aware of them online, didn't like what they had to say, and might have decided to silence them both. If such a person exists, we need to find him."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The tracker was following the attractive brunette woman online, watching as she commented on a general interest social media group. It was a pet ownership group. You would think such a group would be fun and harmonious, he thought. But she could take conflict with her anywhere. In fact, she seemed hell bent on pushing her views across and getting into fights.
He wasn't missing a nuance. One browser was open, tracking her words and her actions. Even her thoughts, he decided, as he hunched over the screen, narrowing his eyes as he waited for her words to appear.
This was one of the women he loathed, and her name was Emma Pratley. He had known about her for a few weeks. He had hated her ever since he'd seen her comment.
Emma Pratley was now in a debate with another woman. He felt filled with anger as he saw the interaction play out.
“The truth is black and white, you do know that. So maybe you should stop trying to justify yourself when you’re wrong. Stop trying to explain a load of trash about kids in daycare?" Emma Pratley's expression, the sharp tone of her voice, the heavy sarcasm—all were anathema to him. He resented this woman and what she stood for.
“You’re just bullying me! Why can’t you accept alternative points of view that are actually concerned about responsible parenting?”
"Your point of view is not alternative. It’s blindingly incorrect. You need to learn some logic, or maybe some intelligence, because you're not impressing me with anything so far. You're just getting over-emotional."
In fact, this other woman in this debate with Emma Pratley had seemed to value calmness and rationality, but was clearly no match for Emma Pratley's superior, aggressive debating tactics. She couldn't handle the levels of abuse, and she was becoming visibly upset.
"You're gaslighting! You're being totally unfair, and I resent your personal insults," her opponent retorted.
"And why's that? Does the truth hurt? The truth is that you don’t know a thing about your topic, and you’re talking out of pure ignorance." Emma shot back.
"We moved away from truth a long time in this argument. You're just trying to be destructive!"
He could see she was getting angry, triggered by the subtle needling and the superior stance that Emma Pratley was deliberately taking. This was all intentional. He knew that Emma didn’t care about logic herself. Most likely, she didn’t really care about responsible parenting either, especially since she wasn’t a parent herself. She just wanted to win, even though it meant causing rage, anger, and making people upset. It was almost as if Emma Pratley was feeding off this negative emotion.
"Calm down. Why are you getting so worked up? Can't you handle debate?" Emma pressed on.
"This is not debate. You're cyberbullying," her opponent replied.
He could see that the interaction had triggered an emotional response, causing Emma Pratley to press home her advantage even further in a gleefully superior way. It was all a crude form of manipulation.
"If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen," Emma Pratley wrote in a condescending tone. "That's what online is all about. Or is this your first day on the internet, Momsie?"
He hated this savage and voracious woman. She was insatiable, grasping for spoils at any cost. He was enraged by what he saw. He slammed his fist on the table so hard that it shook.
But deep inside, the logical part of his mind was still working and observing.
He saw that Emma Pratley liked to spend a long time online. She never quit an argument when she was embroiled in one. Thirty to sixty minutes, at least, was the time she spent trying to destroy and belittle her opponents. Because she was brutally direct, she always stirred up a storm. If one opponent dropped out, others replaced him or her. And there was always a worrying level of support for Emma herself, despite her vicious tactics. People often stood up for the bully and liked to see others destroyed. He was sure that made her feel gleeful and victorious.
But tactics aside, her timing was important to him, because he needed to know the window of opportunity that he would have.
Now, he saw it meant he could make her pattern work for him, and deliver his message precisely when she was there to receive it. It might even be possible tonight. The next few minutes would tell.
He felt a thrill of excitement and anticipation rising within him. He knew what he needed to do now. He would need to time his approach so that he could catch her at a moment when she was alone and online.
He moved to the other tabs. They were his dossier of information, his personal storage facility.
He knew that when they met, when he came face to face with Emma for the first time, it had to be perfect. His plans had to roll out seamlessly, as foolproof as any plan could be in this world where there was so much room for error and complication.
His dossier on her was carefully compiled to ensure that there would be no room for error. He even had the plans for her building, which he’d discovered online. There were some details there that would help him. A lucky find, but he was the first to admit that you made your own luck in this world.
Counting off on his fingers, he listed the information he had.
"Plans," he said aloud, his voice hoarse, because he hadn't spoken for a few hours in this solitary perusal of the online world. "Map. Address. She's a Boston girl. Timing. Neighbors. And I know exactly who she is and what she looks like."
He'd done his work there, for sure. He knew this woman lived in a small, double-story house that she shared with another professional woman. But the other woman regularly travelled overseas for work. She'd just left and would be in London for the next week.
That meant Emma Pratley would be alone. The home to her right was occupied by a family with three young children. He'd spent time studying their comings and goings because that was a potential unknown. He had a good idea of their schedule now. In the evening, they were locked up tight. The exhausted parents never seemed to go out, and he had a feeling that there would be so much noise and activity in the house at night that they wouldn't take much notice of anything happening outside.
On the other side was a couple who worked until late and often socialized. They were seldom home until late, especially toward the end of the week, Thursday through Saturday. So they, too, would be accounted for.
This left Emma Pratley alone in her house, at a moment when there would be no witnesses, no concerned neighbors to interfere with his plans.
He had all the details he needed. It was perfect, like a dream come true. From the plans, he was sure he could get in through the back door. He knew what it looked like, where the door and windows were. He knew what the fencing was like, and that it was easy to climb. He was also aware of the cameras in the area. This being a peaceful, middle income suburban area, there were very few. None of the residents nearby, including Emma, had camera security in place in their own homes. She had an alarm, that he knew, but it was only activated when she went out.
And he planned to meet with her when she was in.
He smiled at the thought. He was relishing the moment, looking forward to the time—those brief few seconds—where she would realize she'd gone too far, crossed a line, and the consequences had come her way. He loved the thought of that moment. It was justice—pure, simple, and undiluted. In its finest form. Retribution that he, and he alone, could bring.
It was time to go.
If he moved fast, then his work could get done tonight. What a bonus that would be. It seemed as if circumstances were in his favor and he would soon be able to do what he needed to do, once again.
Standing up, with a cold grin on his face, the tracker shut down his screens and left, walking swiftly out into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Somewhere out in this darkened city, a man might be watching and listening online, shadowing people's comments, picking his targets, and moving in for the physical kill. Was there such a man, Cami wondered, and if so, how could she root him out from the online world where he hid?
She headed into the FBI offices, walking shoulder to shoulder with Connor, her mind racing ahead as she thought about the best ways to track him down.
They headed straight up to Connor's offices. Cami was impressed by the fact that this building truly never seemed to sleep. Even now, well after office hours, there was a buzz of activity from behind the doors they passed. The elevators were riding up and down nonstop, and they had to wait for one to be available and then stand aside so that three stressed-looking agents could walk out. Talking in low voices, the trio hurried to the exit, most definitely on a work mission and not heading home.
Cami opened her laptop even before she sat down, and as soon as she was perched on Connor's office chair, she began putting together her ideas.
"Firstly, I'm going to look at what these victims said and did while online," she told Connor. “That might give us a clue about who targeted them.”
"So you're going to assess their personas, the impression they gave?" he asked.
"Yes."
"When you have that information, pass it over to me. I can help there," he said. "Sourcing it is not my strong suit. But reading into it is. It might also help me with looking into their real lives more closely.”
"That'll be great. I'll do that," she said.
"And then?" he asked.
"Then I'm going to see if there are any opponents that they triggered. Perhaps there was a direct confrontation with someone that escalated, and there might still be a record of that where it happened. I’ll need to know what their stamping grounds are, where they interacted."
“In my experience, when people get angry enough to have physical confrontations after arguing online, it can go two ways,” Connor said.
"What are those?" Cami asked.
"Either they back down and end up being decent people, apologize, and start being polite and reasonable again. Or else it goes the opposite way and the conflict escalates radically."
"To violence?"
"Yes. To serious violence. It's happened before. We have case history of kidnappings, assault, and even murder that's occurred after fights have escalated online. The FBI doesn't always get involved as some crimes don't fall within our jurisdiction, but we do keep up to date with the serious crimes in our areas."
"How common is that?"
"It's rare, but there is a clear case precedent. Even if comments were deleted afterward. But most times, people seem to think that their online transactions have no relevance to what they did in the real world. It’s strange how someone can literally go out and egg someone’s house or beat someone up while leaving all the evidence online."
Hoping that she’d get a similar lucky break, Cami set out to discover what these victims really had been getting up to, and what enemies they had made in their online world.
First prize, she knew, would be if the two women had an adversary in common. Someone who’d threatened both of them, or else someone who’d just ended up in an argument with both. Either scenario might be correct. But she wasn’t so sure about leaving a clear trail of tracks to follow. After all, this killer had gotten in and out of the houses with such speed and precision. He was sneaky and stealthy. For sure, he was a planner.
So, she would need to be sneaky too. She'd need to look out for subtle signs and indications. She wasn't sure what they would be.
But as she took a look online at the sites, groups, and social media platforms where these women had spent their time, Cami found—to her surprise—that she was developing strong opinions about them.
“I hate to have to say this,” she said, and then stopped, feeling bad about continuing.
“Say what?” he prodded her.
"These women weren't nice!" she admitted to Connor. "I'm going to forward you some conversation threads to show you what I mean. It feels wrong to criticize them, because they're dead, but you can see how they made enemies online. They were both . . . opinionated when they were feeling in a good mood. But trolls, I guess you'd call them, when they were in a bad mood. Real life trolls." Cami felt terrible saying such a thing, but facts were facts. They'd acted appallingly in some of the threads she was reading. It was as if they had deliberately fomented anger and conflict and then fed on the fallout.
"These are adults, presumably well-educated, but they have been saying things online that most people wouldn't dream of saying in public. I know online is not always anonymous, but maybe being in front of a screen instead of face to face with somebody made them feel—I guess, insulated from the consequences.”
“That, we’ve seen a lot of,” Connor admitted. “As have the police. Online bullying is an epidemic and as you say that dissociation between real life and the screen makes people think it’s okay.”
“I can’t believe Cleo or Brooke would be so aggressive in person. No way,” Cami said.
“It seems their behavior could have provided a reason for what happened,” Connor said thoughtfully, reading through the conversation snippets that Cami was sending. “What I am noticing though is that their profiles are very closed. Very private.”
“Yes. They don’t give much information out, and that means that the killer must have found another way to work out who they were. I mean, Cleo’s profile doesn’t even state she lives in Boston. It says ‘Journalist: National Issues’. Brooke is on a few community groups, so it makes it more likely. But why were they targeted, apart from their atrocious behavior? Why them?”
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